


Return Like the White Dove

by radicalbats



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Aziraphale gets a little cheeky without excessive supervision, Crowley thinks too much, Excessive Drinking, Fools in Love, Slow-ish burn, figuring out life after the not-a-pocalypse, liiiittle bit of hurt/comfort, mostly humor probably
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-07-28
Updated: 2019-08-12
Packaged: 2020-07-23 09:56:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 9,025
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20006401
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/radicalbats/pseuds/radicalbats
Summary: Oh oh people of the earthListen to the warningThe Seer (s)he saidBeware the storm that gathers hereListen to the wise (wo)manNo one really talks about what happens after the story ends. But here they were, in the After, trying to figure their way around truly being free for the first time in their lives.





	1. Fancy a bite?

**Author's Note:**

> I first read Good Omens like... eight years ago probably, and I loved it so much, and there were so woefully few fics about it at the time, so now I'm kind of re-obsessed because the show was SO GOOD and these new fics are SO GOOD and I was COMPELLED! Hope you like it!

No one ever talks about what happens after a big, show-stopping ending. All the best romance movies- or, perhaps, the most predictable romance movies- end just before you really get the full, meat-and-potatoes relationship experience. The conventionally attractive woman ends up with the conventionally attractive man, seals their love with a romantic gesture, a long-awaited kiss, or perhaps a montage of them moving in together or a wedding in extreme cases. The Hallmark channel has never subjected the audience to the fights over who left the tin lid off last night and made the biscuits stale, or the moment when they finally feel comfortable enough to use the restroom in front of each other.[1] Any self-respecting action film ends its story well before the audience is forced to acknowledge that their adrenaline-jockey protagonists also had to submit to the mundane horror of day to day existence. No crowds ever gathered around 14 buses well after Evel Knievel jumped them specifically for the after show of him trying to work through his marital issues or paying his taxes[2]. Crowley never suspected he would see a true ending, just another step in a long, long, sometimes excruciatingly long existence of dodging true loyalty to the downstairs and just generally doing whatever he felt like at the time.

Yet there he was, smack dab in the After. Well, technically the Now, but sometime quite specifically After. He’d helped thwart the end of the world, managed to largely shed his allegiance to good ol’ capital-H-E-double-hockey-sticks, and has successfully avoided being discorporated in the process of both. He supposes from the outside it might not have been so show-stopping at all, and maybe that’s where he kept tripping up. It really felt life-ending, and truth be told it very nearly was. But thanks to Adam, bloody brilliant boy that he is, it looked incredibly mundane on the outside. All those innocents burst into flames on the M25 simply forgot the mortal danger they were in and continued whinging on about traffic as if they weren’t well-done human kebabs barely a half hour prior. Soho residents milled about their business, perhaps stopping to gawk at a familiar, antique building they could’ve sworn was burned to ashes the other day, but mostly just chalking their thoughts up to a random miss-remembrance. 

It really was hard; to transition from utter despair, to hope, to despair, to hope, to relief all in the short span of a day, to say nothing of his brief stint as an angel. It all felt, to him at least, that that was the end of life as he knew it. But life, like most ineffable things, had other plans. So there he was, stuck in the After with things continuing on in quite the same way as the Before, with few exceptions.

And much like immediately before the apocalypse was thwarted, Crowley’s main goal at the moment was to get well and truly shit-faced.

Crowley leaned back in the worn, almost overly comfortable armchair stowed away in AZ Fell and Co.’s back room, working his way through a rather watery riesling. He suspects the watery-ness is due to poor Adam’s inexperience with the stuff when he returned the store to working order, but it’s no matter. He simply had to drink twice as much for the desired effect, and that was his plan to begin with.

“I was thinkin’-“ Crowley said out of the blue, halfway through his third bottle, a slight slur to his tongue.

Aziraphale was working on his fifth glass, preferring at least some decorum in the moments before he becomes completely sloshed. After that, he’ll do all the bottle-swigging he wants. It’s the principle of the thing. From his position lounged across a loveseat catty-corner to the armchair, sprawled across the thing like Adam at his own creation, he inclined his head and his precariously held wine glass towards Crowley. “Never anything good that can come from that,” he said, with no real malice.

“I’ve been… thinking.” Crowley waved his hands around haphazardly, as if he couldn’t find a comfortable place to rest them. “You know all these humans, they don’t- they don’t know, you figure?”

“Don’t know what darling?” Aziraphale took a long sip of his wine- more like a gulp, if he were being honest- and turned his drooping eyes to his drinking partner.

“Shhh. I’ve got it. They don’t know… how close they were to ruin,” Crowley slurred. “Like, true ruin. That was some unholy fire, y’know? They were dead! Truly dead and can’t remember a bloody thing about it huh?”

Aziraphale’s brows knit together in deep thought for a moment, before finally figuring together what pearl of wisdom he would bestow on Crowley next. “P’rhaps it’s better that way, yea? If… if you were reduced to say, a pot roast one minute, and back to your own, uncooked self the next, w-would you really wish to remember the part where you were so well done you weren’t fit for Sunday dinner?” He nodded to himself, particularly proud of that particular metaphor. And also slightly hungry.

“‘Suppose not,” Crowley replied after a short bout of silence. Another silence. Crowley practically chugged what remained of his riesling before realizing the point he was originally trying to make. “BUT- but, why’ve they gotta just keep on being so…”

“So?”

“So… human.”

Aziraphale cocked an eyebrow. “I should think it would be concerning should they suddenly be anything else.” He sat down his glass, uncorking the next bottle and taking a swig straight from the neck. Now is as good a time as any.

“Ohhh, you know what I mean. So…” he wiggled his hand vaguely. “So incredibly…”

“Confounding?” Aziraphale supplied helpfully.

“No no no, it’s… it starts with a ‘D’ angel, help me out here.” He tried reaching for the word physically, stretching the arm not holding the wine back so languidly his shirt rode up to show nearly half of his abdomen. 

There was a snort from Aziraphale, followed by coughing, as he tried to dispel the wine he accidentally just sucked up into his airway.[3] “Dense,” he managed to choke out.

“DENSE, yes, perfect word for them, dense. There they are, just… out there… continuing as if everything has been just as it’s always been; they’re out there just… whinging their days away without acknowledging that any day could be their last, and the other day very nearly was.”

“Hmm.” Blue eyes met yellow as Crowley’s shades furthered their descent down the hard slope of the demon’s nose unfettered. “Dense, yes.”

“How much of their little, infini-... infinitta… tiny lives are spent just complaining about whatever is immediately happening to them… o-or maybe wishing the Now away waiting for the Later?”

“A fair amount I’m sure.” 

“More than there should be if you ask me.”

“Did I?” Aziraphale smirked over the rim of his bottle.

“I dunno, sure didn’t stop me.” Crowley met his gaze and winked rather drunkenly.

Aziraphale’s comfortable alcohol blush burned a bit darker.

There was a somewhat uncomfortable silence between them as they continued nursing their poor quality wine. Uncomfortable for Crowley because he was clearly leaving things unsaid. Uncomfortable for Aziraphale because Crowley was clearly leaving things unsaid. 

“... Strange little word, isn’t it?” Aziraphale offered up to the air.

Plied by so many bottles of liquor, Crowley took him up on that offer. “... What word?”

“‘Whinging’.” Aziraphale pronounces the word as if there were a few more H’s than there truly was.

“Well… I s’pose.” Crowley hiccuped. “Why do you say?”

“You said ‘whinging’ a few moments ago.”

He blanked. “Did I?”

“Would I lie?” The twinkle in the angel’s eye showed that, despite his oh-so-holy nature, he is by no means a stranger to lying.

Crowley searched his face, squinting performatively. “Pro’lly not about this yeah? But reeeeaaally, it’s not that bad of a word.” He shifted in his armchair, throwing his legs over the side in an attempt to lounge more completely.

“No no, you have to say it. C’mon, you’ll see!” Aziraphale leaned so hard over the armrest of the loveseat that Crowley could likely tousle his hair with his foot.

Crowley doesn’t do that of course, because that would be strange. “Whinging. See, ‘s fine.”

“No no, draw it out, whinnnnnnn-jing. C’mon, you now.”

“Whing-“

“No, like this: _whinnnnnn-jing-“_

_“Whinnnnn-“_

_“WHINNNNNNjhinng.”_

_“-nnnnnjhing.”_

“Well now, tell me if it feels like a word.”

“Certainly lost all meaning, it has.”

“Can’t help but wonder if we had the true meaning in the first place.”

“Sounds rather like a curse word doesn’t it?” Crowley raised an angular eyebrow, possibly trying to get a rise out of Aziraphale, who seemed quite drunk enough to be a little foolish.

“Now, I’ve used this word since the late eleven-hundreds, surely its definition hasn’t shifted…” His eyebrows knit again, he sat up a bit straighter[4] and flicked his wrist. An Oxford English Dictionary pulled itself from a stray pile of texts; thankfully, it was not a load-bearing structure and didn’t topple the whole thing. The pages fluttered open to the W’s, and Aziraphale took it in his hands with a sloppy “thank-you” to the book. He squinted at the pages, holding the book at an arm’s length, as if that would help improve his vision. “ _Whinge_ : an intransitive British verb meaning to complain fretfully. Now there, see? I told you it was nothing.”

Crowley leaned his head back for another swig of his riesling, scowling when he realized he had finished it a few minutes prior. His head remained tilted back even when he let the bottle drop from his lips, a comfortable ache to his muscles as he let his neck bend further than it usually would. “A’course I see that you twit, I said the blessed word didn’t I?”

That gave Aziraphale pause.

“Crowley?”

“Yes, luv?”

“I do believe I’m quite drunk.”

“Do you?” Crowley finally raised his head enough to get a good look at the angel across from him. His cheeks, chin, and nose were all a bright pink, and his posture was more loose than he’s sure he’s ever seen[5], and would seem extremely comfortable had he looked like he knew where to put his limbs. “Could’a told you that, angel.”

“You’re drunk too.” Aziraphale said, drawing his knees up closer to his chest. Crowley hadn’t noticed when he’d taken off his jacket, or when he’d loosened his tie, or when exactly his hair had gotten that mussed. With his little indignant scowl he reminded Crowley very much of an angry Pomeranian.

“Never said I wasn’t, eh?” Crowley finally righted himself in the chair, his legs giving him no small protest as he wrenched them awkwardly from over the chair’s arms. He felt distinctly that it was coming to the part of the night where Aziraphale got profoundly embarrassed for being so casual and open with “the enemy”, and suggested they sober up to prevent any further accidental displays of less than holiness. He braced himself for it, watching the angel’s movements over the brim of his black sunglasses.

Instead of sobering up, however, Aziraphale took another long pull from the bottle. “S’ppose you didn’t.”

Crowley was surprised at that. “Fancy a walk on the… er, what’s that saying? Wwww… weird? Www-“

“Wwwwi…”

“... WILD side!” They yelled simultaneously. That sent Aziraphale into a small fit of giggles, which he drowned into the neck of his bottle.

“Thassit, yea! You’re certainly im- imbibb- drinking like mad tonight.” Crowley grinned at him, teeth flashing dangerously in the light from the candle on the side table between them.

“All celebratory, I assure you.” Aziraphale grinned the way only he could, reaching out to pat Crowley’s hand, lingering a bit too long with his drunken reflexes. He pulls back, propping his head up on his palm. “Don’t suppose my side is paying much attention after that scare you gave them in any case.”

Crowley frowned. “Don’t suppose either of us HAVE sides anymore. Not really p-partial to a group who’d have me dissolved.”

Aziraphale frowned too, looking more mournful than spiteful. “I do suppose you’re right. I’m not sure I’d even be wanted back after that display of… demonic immunity.”

Crowley said nothing, frown growing deeper. He pushed his shades back up the bridge of his nose, watching Aziraphale’s movements carefully. He’d always known the angel had a much harder time severing ties with the powers-that-be than he had.[6] How could he still feel so beholden to a group that literally worked with THE enemy to char him into nothing though? He’s always known Aziraphale to be a bit of a rebel when it suits him, how couldn’t it suit him now, when they’re all but abandoned by the sides they never seemed to like from the beginning? Watching Aziraphale sadly fiddle with his tie made something deep in his chest ache in a way it hasn’t since he found the shop in flames and his best friend gone.

Suddenly, a steely look flashed in the angel’s eyes, one full of righteous anger and determination. Aziraphale dropped his tie, grabbed his wine bottle tightly in his fist, and threw back what little was left of the riesling. He turned to Crowley, an excited look on his face and an angry smile on his lips. “Who needs them, though? You’re right. We ARE on our own sides. I’ve never liked the lot of them, anyway.”

Crowley quirked an eyebrow.

“OHhhhhh you know what I mean, of course my allegiance still lies with Her, but Sandalphon? Uriel? Michael? Rot to all of them!”

Crowley couldn’t help but watch and see if there were any sign that Aziraphale might be on the verge of a Fall, any sign that his wings might pop out and be speckled with black feathers, but no. He looked, sounded, and _felt_ the same. He was sure he’d be able to feel a shift, but there wasn’t anything in the still air but the faint tingle of heavenly love. God must think they’re all a group of assholes too, then.

After a pause, Aziraphale’s eyes widened, then rolled back in his head, his head lolling at the same time. “Oh and good LORD don’t remind me of that great prick… the archangel FUCKING Gabriel. Oh, how I wish I could’ve been a proverbial fly on the wall when you showed him what for in that hellfire…”

Crowley, in his uninhibited state, couldn’t help but let out a bark of surprised laughter. “Holy shit, angel, not sure I’ve ever heard you talk like this before. Not afraid of another attempted smiting c-courtesy of the higher ups? That stick lodged up your ass finally come loose?”

Aziraphale bristled, but still seemed to be on the warpath. “If I had a stick anywhere near my person I’d use it the moment I catch sight of that- that, that ASSHOLE next!” 

Crowley lost it then, laughing harder than he had in ages, definitely harder than he had in the last week. He clutched at his stomach and accidentally knocked his sunglasses askew as he slapped his free hand on the back of the armchair. “I knew there was a bloody rebel in there!”

Aziraphale ignored him, too stuck in his own manic thoughts. “And should I see that great git Beelzebub, there’ll be a much bigger storm brewing. You should’ve seen the whole lot of them, cheering at the destruction of the… the fucking SERPENT of Eden! One of their own, one of the originals!”

Crowley pawed at his face, wiping away a stray tear and coughing out the last of his guffaws. “Why get your knickers all in a twist, angel? Your side did the same with you- lot more stuffy decorum on their part though.”

“Well… well it’s the- ah, it’s the _principle_ of the thing,” he replied, emphasizing each syllable of the word. “You’re _my_ demon at this point, yes? If there’s any Crowley-smiting, you best believe it’ll be on my terms.” He winked sloppily, giggling a bit too innocently for his words.

Crowley let his eyebrows raise and jaw drop in shock unimpeded. “‘ _Your_ ’ demon, eh?”

“What other angels do you see… _haunting_ around London? Someone’s got-gotta keep you in check,” he hiccuped.

Crowley put on his best shit-eating grin.[7] “Keeping me ‘in check’? Is that what you were doing when you were doing a bit of temptation on my behalf when you popped up to Edinburgh in the sixteen hundreds?”

Aziraphale bristled again. “SPEAKING of Edinburgh,” he said, artfully avoiding the matter at hand, “... the last time I was there, there was this lovely little restaurant called City Restaurant- a few doors down from Blackwell’s. You know, the bookshop near the royal mile? N-now, the Blackwell’s trip was a bit disappointing- lovely place, lovely little cafe on the bottom floor, but they didn’t have any of the first editions I wanted. There are other shops in the city that would probably be more suited for that sort of thing, but the Fringe was in town and there was a _lovely_ collection of Shakespearean works on display-“

“The restaurant, angel?” Crowley interrupted, before he had to hear about another modern day rendition of _Romeo and Juliet_ where Romeo is wearing a knit hat and knows how to play “Freebird” on an acoustic guitar. 

“Oh! Yes, City Restaurant. So I went there between shows and they had just the _best_ fish n’ chips I’ve had in that city in quite a while, and _fantastic_ milkshakes too…”

“Well isn’t that peachy,” Crowley said, wondering when the angel would come around to making his point. 

“Now… doesn’t fish sound like it would pair just _wonderfully_ with a white wine like this…”

Crowley balked, before pulling it together and laughing incredulously. “You mean _beer-battered, deep fried_ fish? I’m not quite sure that’s- uh, the type of fish a high-brow wine is meant for, luv.”

“Oh, come off it you- you… fuddy-duddy. It’s barely high brow. Barely more than water, it is.” He flicked his wrist in the air, trying to physically brush away Crowley’s metaphysical doubts.

“ME? The ‘fuddy-duddy’?! Now this can’t stand!”

“Then what’re you gonna do about it?” Aziraphale gave him the only shit-eating grin that might’ve ever rivaled Crowley’s, and the demon absolutely loved it.

Crowley stood up a bit too abruptly for his body’s blood alcohol level, swaying and having to throw a hand out to Aziraphale’s shoulder for security. He leaned heavily on him for a moment before pushing off, the picture of faked sobriety. He flashed a grin right back, more dangerous than smarmy. “Only one thing left to do then, sweetheart.” 

The angel peered up at him inquisitively. “And what is that, dear boy?”

“Time to get some god-blessed fish and chips.” Crowley grabbed firmly onto the angel’s arm, hoisting him up. Supporting his weight so suddenly while still struggling to keep himself upright was an ordeal, but Crowley managed it.

“But Crowley, it’s-“ Aziraphale checked his watch. “Good lord Crowley it’s nearly two o’clock in the morning!”

Crowley rolled his eyes, walking into the main part of the store towards the door and pulling Aziraphale behind him. “We’re in fucking London, angel, there’s tons of 24 hour restaurants and near all of them with fish and chips.”

Aziraphale froze, nearly toppling Crowley in the process. “You’re right! This is perfect, I am _starving.”_

Crowley chuckled, releasing the angel’s arm. He’d never taken to human food in quite the same way his angelic counterpart had, but he couldn’t deny that something deep-fried beyond all recognition sounded _so fucking good_ at the moment. “Lead the way, Zira.”

“Yes! Onward and upward! Alln- allonsi- oh fuck it. I am GETTING my fish and chips!” The angel strode confidently, if not wobbling, to the door and gripped the handle.

“Put on a sweater, first.” Crowley softly reminded him.

“I am PUTTING ON a SWEATER first!” Aziraphale said triumphantly, raising his finger in the air and turning around on his heel, swaying dangerously. He stumbled towards the coat rack by the front door, pulled a soft-looking sweater from one of the hooks, and pulled it on over his head, not bothering to fix his shirt or tie. His curls haloed out around his head when he popped it through the neck of the sweater; with his renewed vigor, he looked much more like a lion than a Pomeranian. He looked up at Crowley with bright, if not still inebriated, eyes.

Crowley smiled back at him, threw an arm over his shoulders and leaned, both of them supporting themselves on the other. He opened the door to the shop with one hand, pulling Aziraphale out onto the moonlit street.

“Let’s go get you some fucking fish.”

[1] Neither side was quite sure who was responsible for Hallmark originals- Crowley had reported back that it was his doing around the same time Aziraphale had mentioned he had a hand in it to the literal higher-ups. Nowadays, Aziraphale is more likely to claim it around Christmastime, and leave it and it’s seventy three assorted Cinderella-story remakes to Crowley the other eleven months of the year.

[2] Evel Knievel was DEFINITELY one of Crowley’s, mostly with the goal of children scaring their parents into swearing in front of them when they see a makeshift ramp in their front garden.

[3] The airway in question was almost entirely decorative, as by all means angels didn’t particularly NEED to breathe, but having a foreign body show up in any part of you wasn’t particularly pleasant in any case.

[4] A seemingly Herculean task from Crowley's perspective.

[5] Barring his brief stint as the pilot of the angel’s body, though technically he just saw that through several reflective surfaces back home in his flat. He wasn't equipped to act that goody-goody for that long of a time, regardless of how stunning an actor he was.

[6] He cringed a little at that thought, as it didn’t seem that hard for the angel to sever ties with _him_ a few times, but that was a depressing thought for another day, or maybe millennia.

[7] It truly was one of the best shit-eating grins in human, demonic, _and_ angelic history. Really one of Crowley’s temptation staples.


	2. On a Moonlit Star

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for your nice comments! This has honestly just been so much fun to write, and I'm looking forward to the rest of it! I hope you do too!
> 
> Also this is... not a songfic... but I'm a slut for song lyrics... so the title and the snippet from the summary are lyrics from Queen's "The Prophet's Song", which is much darker sounding than I think this fic is ever going to be ahaha. But you should check it out!

As Aziraphale had all but threatened Crowley’s immortal life at the suggestion that he might drive to the 24 hour[1], they decided to take a cab to Bishopsgate, still too sloshed to even suggest such a long potential walk. Crowley whistled sharply- a noise so piercing it was sure to wake up half the residents of the surrounding flats- and, almost out of thin air, a black cab came screeching to a stop before them.

Aziraphale gave Crowley a look, though not a particularly upset one. More of a, “you sly dog”, with a splash of, “subtlety must surely be your middle name”. Crowley released his shoulders, opening the back door of the cab and bowing low.

“After you,” he smirked.

“Oh thaaank you, dear boy,” Aziraphale said, tone of voice far too affected to be genuine. He sidled past Crowley, slipping easily to the passenger side seat and buckling his seatbelt.

“Yea yea,” Crowley replied, slithering into the car and slamming the door a bit harder than was exactly necessary. “You know what they say, age before beauty and all that.”

Aziraphale feigned insult, smiling wickedly as he lightly smacked Crowley on the arm. “Cheeky bastard.” Before he could say anything else, however, the driver took off down the road without any verbal instructions toward their destination. 

He had suspicions as to why.

“Was it _really_ necess’ry to enchant the poor man? We could’ve just as easily _told_ him where we’re going.” Aziraphale groaned slightly, holding tightly to what Crowley often described as the “oh shit” handle as the cab raced down the London streets.

“Oh, come off it angel. And have him risk butting in on our conversation? Asking us things? Pft. Rather not, given the choice.” Crowley lounged across the bench seat, taking up far more room than his thin frame really needed. “Not quite in the mood for human interaction.” 

“Oh, really Crowley, it’s needed on occasion.”

“Oh yea? And when’s the last time you willingly spoke to one of your so called ‘customers’ in that museum you call a bookshop?” Crowley teased. He very nearly knocked his knees against Aziraphale’s, but pulled back at the last second.

Aziraphale’s alcohol blush deepened once more. He huffed once, then turned away. He wasn’t mad of course, just playing the game, continuing their back and forth. “Well you’ve seemed to enjoy _my_ company tonight.”

“‘S not exactly ‘human’ company tho, innit?” Crowley replied, not exactly denying it. “Anyways, back to the matter at hand. Did you HAVE to pick the one 24 hour that’s thirty minutes away?”

“Oh, I know it’s a drive, but the only restaurants in Soho still open don’t have-“

“Yes, I know. But there’s _one_ with a dish called ‘eggs in hell’ that I’m just _dying_ to make you try.” Crowley flashed a dangerous grin, and Aziraphale had to look away, a private smile on his lips.

“You won’t tempt me yet, foul fiend.” 

The thirty minute drive to Bishopsgate lasted much closer to twelve than thirty, and for once, Aziraphale wasn’t quite sure if it was his or Crowley’s fault.

They hopped out onto the curb, turning to face the poor enchanted cabby. Aziraphale watched Crowley carefully as he pulled a rather large bill out of his sleek billfold and slipped it through the crack in the window. It fluttered to the cabby’s lap unnoticed, the poor man’s eyes still glazed over and facing forward. Crowley patted the car’s hood awkwardly and the man drove off as if he never had two otherworldly beings lounging around in the back of his car.

“You are single-handedly devaluing the British pound,” Aziraphale said, letting the unspoken “but that was very kind of you” hang heavy in the air between them.

Crowley shrugged. “Eh, ‘s fine. That’s another point for Hell, and the man gets to feed his family.” He stuck his hands in his pockets as if he wasn’t sure how else to compose himself. 

“No real need to keep score anymore, dear,” Aziraphale reminded him gently.

“Oh, no, I’m still counting. This is a personal competition now, angel.” He winked, extending his arm to Aziraphale. 

Aziraphale let out a little amused “oh!” before threading his arm through the demon’s, chuckling as if he were in on a private joke. “For such a scoundrel, you sure can act the gentleman.”

“Nothing gentlemanly about me, luv.” He said, pulling a hooting Aziraphale down the street.

Nestled among the dim storefronts was a sleek black facade with a large 24-hour sign above the door frame. Aziraphale noticed with a start that there seemed to be some sort of security out front, but he paid them no mind as they approached, apparently on a smoke break. They sidled through a narrow door into what felt like an even more narrow dining room and settled down in the most secluded corner. Aziraphale sat down heavily in the booth and stole a glance around the room. There were a few patrons littered about the room, but not a one so much as lifted their head when the two of them passed by. He supposed he was grateful for that, having rather enough eyes upon him just less than a day ago as he splashed about in a tub in front of Go- the lord of Hell and everyone. It was beginning to look rather suspect, though. Not even the servers turned to look at the two.

“Crowley dear?”

Crowley slid into the booth opposite him, looking small. “Yes angel?”

Aziraphale hesitated. He couldn’t see much behind his blasted sunglasses, but he could tell by the demon’s posture that his eyes were darting around the room. His already slender shoulders bunched in further, looking rather defensive. He was coiled… well, coiled like a snake. 

Aziraphale took a small breath, preparing himself to ask what appeared to be a potentially dangerous question, but before he could choke out the first syllable Crowley steamrolled right over him.

“Oi, they serve wine here. Fancy a round two?”

Aziraphale frowned, quickly trying to hide it. Crowley was such a sensitive creature after all; the slightest disapproving look and he’s ready to run for the hills for a good three days. Through a facade of indifference, he replied, “Oh, no, I don’t believe so. I’m still a little topsy-turvy from the first round, thanks.”

Crowley looked like he noticed, but shrugged it off quickly, head dipping down towards the menu in his hand. Aziraphale sighed almost imperceptibly. He was definitely coming down from the pleasant tingle of the wine, but he certainly wasn’t lying when he said he was feeling topsy-turvy. He was inching towards the part of a drunken stupor when you stop believing every little thing is just exceedingly entertaining, and that’s usually the part of the evening where he would just will his blood alcohol level down to zero and call it a night. However, said drunken stupor was altering his decision making faculties as well as his mood. He really couldn’t place why exactly he was suddenly feeling so low. Well, aside from Crowley’s shift in demeanor. He was sure it had something to do with them being in public, because he definitely looked like he didn’t want to be seen. That in and of itself was a drastic change of pace for the demon. He was usually so sure of himself, even in the most stressful or unsure of situations. It was always a quality Aziraphale had always liked[2], and to see him laid so low-

“The staring is flattering, but I must say, I’m not exactly on the menu.” Aziraphale jumped a little in his seat. “Well, at least not on this one.” Crowley smirked, not exactly looking 100% himself but at least sounding like enough of a cocky bastard to be close.

“Oh hush, I was just… thinking.” Aziraphale said. He picked up his menu with a huff, glancing down at their drink section. 

“Never anything good that can come from that.” Crowley said behind his own menu.

“Oh, shut it.”

Crowley ignored him. “Know what you want, angel?”

“Yes, I do believe I-“

Before Aziraphale could finish his sentence, Crowley snapped sharply. He looked over Aziraphale’s shoulder towards what the angel assumed was their waitress. Before he could chastise the demon for being rude to the waitstaff, however, a young girl in a uniform and a glassy-eyed expression stepped quickly up to their table. Instead of a notepad, she was brandishing a tray topped with two orders of fish and chips, a stout looking teacup, and a mug that could only be filled with black coffee. Aziraphale blustered, but was unable to get a word out before the girl was piling their un-ordered orders onto the table before them. Crowley waved her away.

Crowley turned back to Aziraphale, mouth open as if he was about to start a new conversation[3], but stopped short when he noticed the angel’s concerned expression.

“Crowley…”

“Well, might as well dig in, fish is disgusting when it’s cold-”

“Crowley if you would just-”

“Oh, I know you love sushi, that’s not what I’m talking about, I mean fish that was already HOT that has just suddenly become cold-”

“Crowley!” Aziraphale didn’t shout; no, that would bring attention to the two of them. That is, if Crowley wasn’t preventing _everyone_ in the restaurant from seeing them. “What on earth is going on?”

“... With the fish?” Crowley paused, his mug halfway to his lips. He seemed bewildered.

“No, no- what on earth is going on with _you?_ What’s got you in this sudden mood?”

Crowley paused, seemingly weighing his options. He sighed, letting his shoulders slump for the first time since they sat in the booth.“‘On earth’ isn’t exactly the problem here.”

“What is that supposed to mean? We were having a lovely evening, I’m not quite sure what has caused this shift-”

“Of course, lovely evening, lovely dinner at the Ritz, lovely admonitions from our respective head offices, lovely fucking day.” That gave Aziraphale pause. Crowley had been so… blasé about what had happened during their time masquerading as each other up until now. He hadn’t realized it was affecting him the way it seemed to be now. 

Aziraphale was puzzled. “... My dear, I’m so sorry-”

“Save it.” Crowley interjected, rubbing his forehead as if he was getting a headache and waving his hand as if he could wipe away the inevitable regretful self-flagellation the angel was sure to inflict on himself for not noticing his emotional turmoil. “‘S alright, Angel. Don’t worry about it.”

Aziraphale was definitely going to worry about it, but he decided for the moment he would, as they say, _save it._ “But, Crowley… You didn’t seem upset at all before a few minutes ago.” 

“Whaddaya mean, I don’t seem upset at all,” Crowley said, seeming very upset.

“Well, you’ve certainly… I mean, why is it that you keep controlling all of the people we encounter? Aren’t we trying to be a bit more… under-the-radar?” Aziraphale finally glanced down at their food at that point; it was bound to get cold soon. Why hadn’t he waited just a few more minutes to… no, no. This matter was more important. 

Crowley’s mouth worked silently for a moment, then closed in a frown. After a moment he sighed once more, steeling himself before saying what he had to say. “Angel, I’m just… I’m nervous.”

Aziraphale held back his instinct to balk, however strongly he felt this was a situation in which balking was at least a bit warranted. He’s not quite sure he’s ever heard the demon say anything revealing that he might be the least bit frazzled.[4] “Oh my dear boy-“

“Ugh, knock it off will you, I can _taste_ your concern in the air. It’s disgusting, it is.” Crowley sneered dramatically, waving his hand once more in an attempt to seem unaffected.[5]

“Oh I’m so- my dear, I just can’t shake the feeling that apologies are in order on my part,” Aziraphale wrung his hands, fidgeting in his seat. “I hadn’t thought- well I was so careless, dragging you to and fro across the city today so soon after our own personal judgement days. I just had no idea-“

“Angel!” Crowley interrupted, sounding very much like he simultaneously wanted nothing more or less than to make a scene. “Save it, will you? You weren’t dragging me anywhere; I suggested the Ritz, ultimately I suggested this dump, and here we are. It’s nothing you need to worry your addled head about. ‘S natural that I would be a little jumpy after that, but it’s fine, innit? I’m managing.”

Aziraphale cast his eyes to the side, wondering what was truly going on in his companion’s head, and dutifully ignoring the throwaway insult. “If you insist, my dear.” Aziraphale looked back at Crowley, and put on his most convincing, confide-in-me-wayward-soul look.[6] His hand found Crowley’s clenching and unclenching on the tabletop and gave it a light, but long, squeeze. “But, you do know you could tell me anything, yes?”

Crowley paused, eyes presumably searching Aziraphale’s face through his dark glasses, and the tension in his face slipped away. The open expression didn’t last for long, however, before it gave way to one of pure mental exhaustion and feigned annoyance. He shook his hand out of the angel’s grasp dramatically before leaning heavily on the edge of the booth. “Fine, fine! You win, as always, you— you letch.”

“‘Letch’? Interesting choice of words.” Aziraphale froze before he could flash Crowley a mischievous smile, feeling Crowley’s undoubtedly unamused gaze snap to his face. He composed himself, feeling the last bit of his inebriation slip away. “Sorry my dear, go on.”

Crowley let his head drop into his hands, elbows digging into the table. “Well, it’s just- good lord- er, satan- oh whatever. That’s the problem, innit? The two of them.” He sucked in a breath. “I’m no good at this.”

Aziraphale frowned- everything in him wished to reach out and comfort his oldest friend, but he withheld. He was sure it would just make the demon uncomfortable. “No need to be good at it.”

“I… well you’ve got the gist of it, yea? We both just went through something that was minutes from destroying the world as we know it, and then we think maybe we’ll have a bit of time before the powers-that-be or don’t-be cock it all up, but they wait all of 15 hours or so to attack us publicly, in front of dozens of people! What’s gonna happen next time I fancy getting a vanilla with a flake next time we’re in St. James? Think the trolly man might be a bit confused after seeing the two of us get dragged off by a bunch randoms?”

“Well, I suppose they might’ve concealed themselves and what was happening in some way-“

“The thought that they might’ve actually put some rational thought into it scares me even more, angel. If they can come for us in the middle of the day surrounded by humans, who’s to say they won’t take us again in the dead of night?”

Aziraphale frowned deeply. He completely understood, but he desperately wished he could assuage Crowley’s fears. Against his better judgement, he reached out and grasped his friend’s hand. “Crowley, we’ve scared them off. I know that it’s not forever, but I’m certain they haven’t recovered from the shock within twenty-four hours of the incident. I won’t say we’ve nothing to worry about, but… but I won’t say we have to sacrifice our enjoyment of the world we risked our immortal lives to protect.”

There was a pause, something heavy in the air between them. Crowley sniffed, then freed his hand from Aziraphale’s. He ran his fingers through his hair, trying in vain to make it at least look artfully messy. “... Guess you’re right, angel.”

Aziraphale smiled proudly. “Yes, of course I’m right. Now, can we both agree controlling everyone around us is unnecessary, as they clearly aren’t agents of Heaven or Hell come to drag us back to our inevitable executions?”

“Wouldn’t say ‘unnecessary’.”

“Crowley!”

“Yea yea, fine.” Crowley snapped his fingers[7], and after a brief moment of confused murmuring, the natural ambient noises one would expect in a diner at two in the morning returned in full force. The waitstaff that was out in the dining room or at the register all threw their table confused glances, as one by one each employee realized they hadn’t seen the two of them come in, nor do any of them remember serving them. In true food-worker fashion, however, they all decided they really didn’t care, as they were all waited on already. 

Aziraphale grinned at him. “Thank you, you sweetheart.” Crowley scrunched up his nose in a gesture akin to embarrassment.[8] “And I promise you, whatever it is those two sides throw at us, we can beat it so long as we stick together.”

Crowley sputtered a bit, face turning red in a way that Aziraphale didn’t think it could, and suddenly Aziraphale felt his booth shudder as the drunk man in the booth behind them kicked the back of the angel’s seat. 

“My my, so petulant this evening.” Aziraphale tutted. He picked up his forgotten tea to inspect it, and was very surprised when he realized the mug was still piping hot, and presumably so too were the contents inside.

“It might come as a surprise, but I’m not the one who was cursing out the literal archangels of the lord a little over a half hour ago.” Crowley smirked, looking something quite close to his usual self, though still a bit red behind the ears. 

Aziraphale tutted, ignoring the demon’s comment.[9] He raised his cup to his lips and took a sip, eyes fluttering open in surprise when the taste of it hit his tongue. “Oh!”

Crowley’s attention snapped up to Aziraphale’s face, looking somewhat worried behind his dark sunglasses. “What is it? Something wrong?”

Aziraphale took another drink of his tea before shaking his head. “No, nothing wrong! I’m just surprised, earl gray was exactly what I wanted. How did you know?”

“Oh, simple. Trading bodies left us with a psychic link, and I know exactly what you’re thinking at any given moment now.”

Aziraphale nearly spit out his tea at that. “You- everything? Can you hear everything I’m thinking? I haven’t gotten a single side effect, how could you possibly-“

“Calm down, angel, I’m just fucking with you, I just know it’s your favorite.” Crowley presumably rolled his eyes and leaned forward to take a drink of his respective beverage. 

“... Oh.” Aziraphale felt foolish. He tried, and more than likely failed, to hide his shame behind yet another sip.

“Oh, come on angel, you’ve thrown back your tea like it’s a bloody shot and you haven’t taken a single bite of your fish. C’mon, it’s the whole reason we came here, I’m dying to see if it lives up to the hype.” Crowley said, sounding very much like he wasn’t really in any sort of suspense. 

“Oh! Yes, of course.” 

Without any further ado, he tucked into his meal. Crowley followed suit, though much less enthusiastically. He took a few halfhearted bites of the battered fish, seemingly gave up on that, then moved on to the chips. Aziraphale, on the other hand, was excitedly sampling from each type of food on his plate.

“Mm! Delicious. Crowley dear, what do you think?”

“S’alright, still a little full from the Ritz is all.”

“Oh, I’m sorry my dear boy! Well at least try the fish with a bit of lemon, will you? It completely changes the flavor profile- oh! And make sure to try the peas, they’re absolutely scrumptious!”

Crowley wrinkled his nose at that in a gesture of exaggerated disgust. “No thanks, angel; I’m morally opposed to eating anything that has the word ‘mushy’ in the title.”

Aziraphale rolled his eyes, smiling fondly before taking a bite of his own mushy peas. He patted his lips with his napkin before tutting. “What’s wrong with ‘mushy’?”

Crowley cringed once more at the mention of the word. “Well just listen to it, will you? Bloody disgusting word, it is. Sounds like what it would feel like to step on a large bug or something.”

It was Aziraphale’s turn to cringe after that, pointedly dropping the spoonful that was previously on its way to his mouth. “Well, what else could it possibly be called?”

“Well, mashed peas is one option.”

“Won’t it get confusing on menus though?”

“Why in the world would it be confusing?”

“Well, what if someone was to say ‘mash’ and they meant peas but got potatoes instead? Wouldn’t that be confusing?”

Crowley paused. “Wh- not if they say peas afterwards?”

“I just think mushy is a good enough descriptor.”

“For the love of humanity, _please_ stop saying mushy.”

Aziraphale laughed at that, continuing to eat his meal in the companionable silence that followed. Crowley did, indeed, put a bit of lemon on his fish, and seemed satisfied enough with it to finish a little over half of the fillet. He very pointedly avoided touching the small pile of peas on his plate, but Aziraphale graciously didn’t mention it again.

Once Aziraphale had cleaned his plate[10] and the two of them were chatting companionably once again, the same young girl from before approached their table cautiously, looking much less glassy-eyed.

“Um…” she started, fiddling with a pad of paper in her hands. “I, like… don’t remember serving you, but… you’ve already been served, so like… was everything okay? Do you need anything? Like, dessert?”

Aziraphale glanced up at her namecard before he smiled up at her with a look that normally seemed to put humans at ease. [11]

“Oh, don’t worry, Angela! You’ve been a perfectly amiable host. It’s merely been a particularly busy night, it’s no surprise you forgot us in the blur. It was no trouble though! No issue here.”

Angela blinked, clearly perplexed but seeming very much like she didn’t care enough to dispute the matter. “Oh, okay? Um. So. Do you… need anything?”

“Just the check, please.” Crowley smirked up at the girl, obviously tickled pink at Aziraphale’s willing to lie at the drop of a hat. He languidly slid a credit card across the table to her.

“Oh, yea, of course.” Angela still looked a little puzzled, which wasn’t exactly out of the ordinary for perfectly normal humans who were forced to interact with capricious ethereal/occult beings such as themselves. She gingerly picked up the card, before squinting at the table in an obvious attempt to figure out what they had ordered. “I’ll… be right back.”

Crowley leaned his elbow on the table, watching as she left. “Not the brightest bulb, is she?”

Aziraphale frowned, swatting Crowley’s arm. “Don’t be mean; we’ve obviously caught the poor girl off guard.”

“ _Obviously.”_ Crowley mimicked Aziraphale, earning him another swat.

After a prolonged trip behind the counter, where the girl and her coworkers kept looking back and forth between themselves and the odd pair in the booth, Angela returned with their bill and Crowley’s credit card. 

“Here you go sirs. Have a nice rest of your night.” She sat the little bill tray on the table, grabbed their plates and whisked them off behind the counter.

Crowley slipped his card back into his sleek leather billfold and stuffed it back into the tight pockets of his skinny jeans. Crowley raised an eyebrow as Aziraphale tossed a ten pound note on top of the receipt.

The angel blushed a bit at the attention. “For her troubles.”

“What was it you said about ‘devaluing the British pound’?”

Aziraphale ruffled the feathers of his wings hidden away in the celestial plane, adopting an aloof look on his face. “I earned that from my bookshop, thank you very much. I’m an important part of the local economy, you know.”

“Oh, _very._ Tell me, how did someone manage to wrench one of your precious books away from you without coming getting confused and abandoning it before they reached the register?”

Aziraphale deflated. “Well… I sort of… have a few burner books- novels that I’m not quite… attached to.”

Crowley nearly guffawed at that. “Fucking hell, angel! How crafty!”

“Oh hush, it’s proper business practice.” He sniffed, turning away to finally adjust his shirt and tie under his sweater.

“Don’t think anything about your business could be considered ‘proper’, luv.” Crowley smirked, standing and stretching.

Aziraphale chose to ignore that. He stood from the booth as well, patting his full stomach. “Goodness, I must say I was much less hungry sober than I thought I was while drunk.”

Crowley frowned in agreement. “I’ve gotta agree with you there. Thought fried foods would be amazing back then but now it feels like a lead weight.”

Aziraphale nodded in agreement, groaning a bit as they made their way to the exit. Once the cool night air hit their faces, Aziraphale felt a bit of energy come back to his tired limbs, and he felt himself smiling.

“Crowley?”

“Hm?” Crowley paused at the curb, looking around for any sign of a cab.

“How would you feel about walking back to Soho?”

Crowley whirled around on his heels, confusion written across his features. “Walk? Jesus H, angel, it’s an hour’s trek back! After that fried monstrosity?”

Aziraphale nodded encouragingly. “Please? I could use the exercise, you know. And we could really take in all the sights we took for granted before this whole ‘apocalypse’ nonsense. It’s really lovely out tonight.”

Crowley groaned softly. He swayed from side to side a bit, obviously conflicted. “Well, I suppose, but angel-“

“And…” Aziraphale interjected, “if we run into any trouble, this time we’ll be ready for it. I promise to watch your back if you promise to watch mine.”

Crowley’s groan got much louder, but he turned away from the curb and started down the sidewalk. “Demons don’t make promises.”

Aziraphale grinned, starting after him. “Good thing you’ve never been a very good demon, then, hm?”

Crowley looked at him over his shoulder and rolled his eyes, somehow using his whole body to do so. Despite the sass, he slowed his gait a bit so they could walk side by side. Once the angel caught up, he bumped their shoulders together in a silent promise to watch his back as well.

“Oh, we should cut down by the Thames, we could get a peek of the Globe across the way.” Aziraphale said enthusiastically, bumping Crowley back. 

“Ugh, nothing much to see of the Thames. Probably won’t be able to see the Globe either, not like the lights will be on at 3 in the morning.” Crowley was clearly making a point to not look down at Aziraphale, but if the angel looked closely[12] he could see the yellow of his reptilian eyes peeking down at him. 

“Even still, I love the sound of the rushing water.”

“It’ll probably smell.”

“Oh, I doubt it; last time it really smelled bad was in the mid 1800’s.”

“Oh heaven, that was enough to drive me out of London for the rest of the century.”

“I’m surprised it managed to rouse you from that great nap you took through most of it!” 

“Oh, don’t worry, it continued once I relocated. Even a disgusting sewer incent couldn’t make that century interesting.”

Aziraphale laughed, sharing the same sentiment. The two of them strolled down the street, making enjoyable conversation and drifting ever closer. 

“This is nice,” he remarked.

“Hm?” Crowley asked, seemingly caught off guard.

“Oh, I don’t know, I’m just- I’m enjoying this, just… hanging out without fear of repercussions, enjoying the world we helped to save.”

“Truth be told, we didn’t really do _much_ to help, angel.”

Aziraphale laughed, swatting his arm. “We needn’t think too hard about that, dear boy.”

Crowley laughed, finally sparing Aziraphale a look. Crowley’s hair was still mussed from their drinking excursion earlier, and Aziraphale couldn’t decide whether it looked like horns or a halo.

“I’m just very much enjoying my time with you, Crowley.”

Crowley nearly tripped. He turned his face away from Aziraphale’s and tried to recover, adjusting his shades to cover his eyes better. Despite his best efforts, Aziraphale couldn’t help but notice his ears turn a peculiar shade of red.

“No need to get sappy, angel.”

Despite his dismissive words, Crowley didn’t do anything to stop his hand from bumping into Aziraphale’s with each step.

“So…” Aziraphale started after a short silence.

“So?”

“We are going back to the shop, yes?”

“That was the plan? Why do you ask?”

“Well, it’s so late now, and I know you value your rest.”

“That I do.”

“It would be so out of your way to go to the shop, then on to your flat.”

“That’s true.”

“And you know I don’t sleep, but I do happen to have a bed in the flat above my shop. And I don’t really know for sure, but it appears to be pretty comfortable.”

Crowley paused, coming to a stop on the sidewalk. “What are you getting at, angel?”

Aziraphale paused too, facing Crowley but refusing to look up at his face. “W-well, I’m sure you’re tired, and I won’t be sleeping, so I have an empty bed tonight. And though I suppose we’d be in different rooms, doing different things, but I just think… well I suppose-“

“Suppose what, Aziraphale?”

“I suppose that… after all that happened, you staying over at mine and being in each other’s company would be… mutually beneficial.” Aziraphale muttered, fiddling with his bow tie.

There was a long, silent pause, and finally Aziraphale couldn’t stand it anymore. He looked up at Crowley’s face, a retraction already in his holster and ready to fire, but it died on his tongue.

Crowley was trying and failing to hold back a small, genuine smile. Aziraphale was nearly blinded by it, small as it was.

Crowley noticed his starring and bristled, adjusting his glasses once more in an attempt to hide his face. “Well,” he coughed, “if you’re sure it would be mutually beneficial.”

  
  
  
  


[1] Crowley insisted that he could have his beloved Bentley self-drive it’s way there just fine; in fact, the angel had been in the car himself while he’s done just that before, but Aziraphale’s morals were still quite staunch in some areas yet.

[2] He would never admit it, but some days he felt very close to envious of him. But not exactly envious, oh no, that would be a sin.

[3] Or perhaps continue an old one.

[4] Barring, of course, this whole “end of the world” business, which Aziraphale believed was quite warranted.

[5] It wasn’t working all that well, but Crowley was a staunch follower of the “fake it ‘til you make it” philosophy and felt that, if he has not yet “made it”, he just needed to “fake it” all the more.

[6] Also commonly known in his most personal circle (aka the one containing Crowley) as his “Would you please just give me what I want otherwise I’m going to be unbearable” look.

[7] Following an eyeroll of such epic proportions that it would be entirely impossible for any mere mortal.

[8] Assuming that Crowley had the capability to feel shame, which Aziraphale very much doubted.

[9] Something Aziraphale was very well accustomed to.

[10] And Crowley had finished about a third of his own.

[11] It was especially helpful in convincing people that they never even wanted that rare first edition book, and they were, in fact, just about to leave the bookshop.

[12] Which he was making a point not to do so.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry to the Thames, I just really wanted to mention the Great Stink of 1858, which is a hilarious and disgusting anecdote for y'all to check out on your own time.


End file.
